


The Adventure Of The Yellow Face (1883)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [35]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Government Conspiracy, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:06:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The case that brought into our lives the house that would forever be associated with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, along with its formidable (terrifying) rifle-wielding landlady Mrs. Ellen Harvelle, of whom no man would dare speak ill.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticduxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



Our New Year celebrations, such as they were for eighteen hundred and eighty-three, were overshadowed by our ongoing and so far fruitless efforts to find somewhere else to move to the following spring, when Miss Letitia Hellingly would be emigrating with both her soon-to-be-husband Mr. Frodsham and her sister Mrs. Hall (I hoped Americans were ready to hold their breath!). Unfortunately this entailed a visit by said sister, who was once again all over Holmes like a rash, in a manner quite unbecoming even her! The sisters had arranged to sell the house to a family who were returning to England from Australia and wished to have a large family home in the capital, so we knew that we would have to quit, and soon. Happily, our next case together provided me with two things, one of which was an (eventual) answer to that particular problem. 

The other thing it brought, less was the terrifying knowledge as to what those in power could do with it.

+~+~+

Of all the special days of the year that lay between January 1st and December 31st, the one I for which have always reserved a particular loathing is St. Valentine's Day. Fortunately Holmes had always expressed complete indifference towards it, which I appreciated. It was bad enough dealing with patients on that day, all of whom always seemed to feel compelled to ask me 'if I had found that special someone yet?'. I had the friendship of the greatest man in London Town, and that was more than enough for me at this point in my life.

This particular day of hell had started well enough, or so it had seemed. I had come out to find a decent-looking breakfast awaiting my attentions (it quietly amused me that Miss Hellingly, despite having a steady beau, still got Holmes' bacon so crisp that it could stand up by itself, just as he liked it). He was already at the table, reading a letter; three cups of coffee in from his relatively alert state.

“I have been offered what promises to be a most curious case”, he said. “A Mrs. Harvelle of Baker Street wishes us to investigate claims made by a psychic.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“I thought you said that we had had enough of the preternatural, after the late and un-lamented Mr. Zachariah Wriothesley?” I said. 

“Someone I too do not miss”, Holmes said, “but the claims made may in this instance bear some truth. I have a hunch that this case could be important. Would you be able to accompany me?”

Fortunately it was a rare day off from the surgery, where the winter weather had made us busier than usual of late (to the joy of my bank-manager if not my tired feet), so I agreed, and after breakfast we headed off to Baker Street.

+~+~+

Baker Street is one of the capital's longer thoroughfares, stretching for about half a mile from where it meets the north-east corner of Portman Square in the south, crossing the important east-west Marylebone Road about two-thirds of the way along, and then slicing athwart the main road heading north-west to Birkenhead and Liverpool before ending at the Outer Circle of the great Regent's Park. North of the Marylebone Road it is colloquially but not officially referred to as 'Upper Baker Street', and it was in this part that our destination lay. 

Our potential client owned number 221B, a pleasant house that backed onto the railway tracks (I should add that Baker Street Station was a lot quieter back then, as it had yet to develop into the major transport hub that it later became). From the look of the place, it had clearly been a much larger house at one time, which had now been divided into three, Mrs. Harvelle's house being on the right as we looked at it. There was a narrow alleyway, presumably allowing access to the back, between it and number 223.

Mrs. Harvelle herself was a formidable-looking lady somewhere about forty years of age, and she looked both Holmes and myself up and down appraisingly before bidding us enter. I was glad to feel that we has passed some sort of unspoken test (had I known then that she not only kept but was fully trained in the use of a rifle, I would have been even gladder!). And incredibly, she did not simper at Holmes.

Yet, a quiet voice snarked at the back of my mind. I ignored it.

Mrs. Harvelle ushered us into her own room at the back of the house, where coffee and cakes were waiting for us. Once we were comfortable, she began.

“I read the good doctor's stories about you in the magazine, Mr. Holmes”, she said, still eyeing him cautiously. “If you are as good as they say you are, then perhaps you can locate something of mine that has gone missing?”

Pray to the Lord not another fountain-pen, I thought silently.

“My husband.”

Not another fountain-pen, apparently. That even got a raised eyebrow from the great man himself.

“Surely an errant spouse is a matter for the police?” Holmes asked, eyeing a white meringue. She had scored well with the coffee; if someone had told our prospective client about his sweet tooth, she had him well and truly hooked. The lady hesitated.

“What I am about to tell you is very bad”, she said, looking almost nervous. “I know from your stories that I can trust the doctor, of course.”

Holmes shot me a look which quite clearly said 'you vain bastard!' I did not blush. Much.

“Of course”, he smiled. 

“It is like this”, she said. “Bill works as a policeman at the station in the Street, but he also collects rent money for a friend of his who has property in the area, and is often away. The uniform makes them more likely to cough up, I suppose. He came home from work last Friday as normal, and everything seemed fine. Then he mentioned that he was going to two of Fred's houses to collect the moneys owed. And he never came back.”

“The police have not conducted inquiries?” I asked, surprised.

She looked around again, seemingly fearful of anyone overhearing her.

“Tom, who works at the same station, dropped in yesterday morning on his way into work”, she said quietly. “He told me that someone had sent down an instruction to the station to 'stop looking for Harvelle'. He only knows that because his son is dating the inspector's secretary, Glenda; she came round for tea that same day. She told me that when the letter came, she thought her chief was going to faint. Just after, he told everyone that another station was taking over the case, but she said he never asked her to send over any files, so she thinks that that was a lie.”

“It is now Tuesday”, Holmes mused, “so your husband has been gone for four days, Mrs. Harvelle. The trail is somewhat cold.”

The lady's face fell.

“However”, Holmes continued, “there is definitely something odd about this case, and that has caught my interest. If you can supply me with the addresses of Mr. Harvelle's friend's houses, we shall visit them, and see what we can discover.”

She smiled in relief.

+~+~+

“I do hope that you are not raising that dear lady's hopes”, I said as we left. “As you said, the trail is cold by now.”

He looked at me in surprise. There was a long silence between us.

“Mrs. Harvelle said that her husband's friend patrols not far from this house, he observed. “We must find him and question him.”

For the first time, I began to get a bad feeling.

“There is something dark about this case, isn't there?” I asked worriedly.

Holmes managed a small smile; not one of his real ones, I knew. I could feel myself getting more and more anxious.

“The London constabulary may have a great variation of quality amongst its policemen”, he said, “but they protect their own. For this case to have been dropped – for make no bones about it; there will be no official investigation into Mr. William Harvelle's disappearance – someone very high up would have had to have given a direct order. The sort of person who could back that order with the threat of fear, possibly even death. Most likely a politician.”

“But why would a simple constable's disappearance be of interest to a politician?” I asked, bewildered.

Holmes stopped and looked at me.

“Because they were almost certainly the ones who made him disappear”, he said quietly, before striding on.

I stood dumbstruck on the pavement for some moments before snapping out of my daydream, and hurrying after him.

+~+~+

Constable Thomas Jones was not happy to see us, that was quite clear. And after the disappearance of his colleague, I could perhaps understand why.

“I don't want to be seen talking to you two”, he muttered, as the three of us sat in the snug at the Dog and Duck. “Look what happened to poor Bill.”

“That is why we waited until you had gone in here”, Holmes said. “I am sure that the landlord can be persuaded to allow us to leave via the back door, for a consideration. Sir, Mrs. Harvelle says that you were the last person to see her husband alive. You told her something; surely you owe it to her to help actually find her husband?”

The policeman looked darkly down into his beer.

“Bill's gone”, he muttered.

“What do you mean, 'gone'?” I asked. The constable sighed, and straightened up. 

“I'll tell you all I know”, he said, “but off the record. Right?”

“Of course”, Holmes said. “Go on.”

The constable took a large drink, and I could see that he was actually shaking. What the hell were we dealing with here?

“Bill came to my house after he'd been to his second collection, in Glentworth Street”, he said. “He was as white as a sheet. He said everything had gone hunky-dory right down to the last chap in room six. There was a notice on the door saying to go away, but of course he knocked. When no-one answered, he tried to go in, but he was halfway through the door when someone inside grabbed him and threw him out. Bill was a huge bloke, but he said this guy handled him like a pro.”

“You said 'was'”, Holmes observed. “Why do you think that he is dead?”

“Coming to that”, the policeman muttered, taking another drink. Holmes gestured to me, and I went to the hatch to request a refill for him. “As I said, he came straight to my house, and he looked like death. He said that in the few seconds he'd been inside the room, he'd seen a man sitting up in bed. And the chap's face was bright yellow, with sores all over!”

“ _Bright_ yellow?” I asked, returning with his drink, which he accepted gratefully. He nodded.

“I asked him, but he said it was almost like yellow paint”, he said. “Bill was sure the man had some infectious disease, and it made him jumpy. He didn't want to go back home to his missus, but I insisted. Anyways, he was barely out of my gate when a carriage pulled up and three guys got out, and dragged him into it. I yelled and rushed out, but two more guys got out and threatened me that they'd have my wife and kids all killed if I so much as breathed a word down at the station. One of them had a gun.”

“We are not 'coppers'” Holmes said reassuringly. “And we really have taken up too much of your valuable time, constable. My friend and I will now leave via the back exit, and I suggest that you wait twenty minutes before leaving by the front.”

“But what if...?”

“Have faith, Mr. Jones”, Holmes said. “Goodbye.”

+~+~+

“There is a man who lives in fear for his life”, I said. 

“Yes”, Holmes agreed. “And fortunately, a man of habit.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Because the man who was following him spoke to the landlord, who assured him that Constable Jones always spends a good half-hour in the snug”, Holmes said.

“I did not see anyone following him”, I said. 

“That is rather the point”, Holmes said, a little smugly, I thought. “Watson, I have some messages to send before I return home. Would you care to walk to the post office with me?”

“Of course”, I smiled.

+~+~+

There was a small coffee-shop next door to our local post office, so I sat myself down with a newspaper whilst Holmes sent his messages. After fifteen minutes or so he emerged, but walked right by my table to where a corpulent elderly gentleman was sitting, and slammed his hand down hard on the table, rousing him from his half-sleep. I thought this rather rude, but before I could say anything, Holmes had leaned over and was whispering something in the elderly gentleman's ear. Whatever it was caused the man to turn a shade of white that nearly had me rushing to his aid, but he stood up with surprising speed and almost sprinted away, an amazing turn of pace for one so old. Holmes returned to our table, looking pleased.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“The man who has been following us ever since we left Mrs. Harvelle's house”, Holmes said. “Except where we caught the omnibus.”

I stared at him in shock.

“So that was why you insisted we run for the 'bus!” I said. “And why we only went three stops!”

“Well, we were going in the wrong direction, the Park rather than Constable Jones' beat”, Holmes explained. “I dare say that our shadow had an uncomfortable time ferreting around the two houses before realizing that we were elsewhere.”

I finished my coffee.

“So where next?” I asked.

“Home”, was the surprising answer. I stared at my friend.

“Cramer Street?” I asked. “Are you giving up?”

He looked at me as if I were mad.

“No”, he said. “I expect the solution to the crime will be there, quite probably before we are. It will not be pretty, but we must make the best of a bad job.”

I had no idea when he said that as to just how true those words were to prove to be.

+~+~+

There were two carriages parked outside our house when we arrived, and judging from the expression on Miss Hellingly's face, one or both of the visitors was important. We ascended to our rooms, and I was less than pleased to find them occupied by two people, one of whom was the obnoxious Mr. Bacchus Holmes. The other man was in his fifties; short, fat and looking far more self-important than any true gentleman ever should. Incredibly his hair was done up in what looked like a pony-tail!

The elder Holmes shook his head at us.

“You really have gone too far this time, Sher”, he said sententiously. “This is one case that you will have to drop.”

“On whose authority?” I demanded, disliking him even more.

“Her Britannic Majesty's Government”, said the short man, staring at us both as if we were something that had just crawled out of a nearby drain. “John Bewick, Minister without Portfolio.”

“Generally the government fixer”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes explained. “He sorts out political messes. Like the one you two have blundered into.”

Holmes sat in his chair and stared coldly at his brother. I was sure that the temperature in the room fell by several degrees. Even the oleaginous Mr. Bewick looked uncomfortable.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Bacchus”, he growled. “This is a new low, even for you!”

To my surprise, his brother blushed.

“We do not have time for this nonsense!” Mr. Bewick snapped. “How much do you idiots know?”

“I know everything”, Holmes said airily. “And unless you agree to every one of my terms, your government will not see out the week.”

There was a cold silence in the room.

“Those are fighting words, Mr. Holmes”, Mr. Bewick said, his eyes glinting dangerously. “And you are bluffing.”

Holmes turned to look at him, and even our visitor flinched under that azure gaze. There was a long silence before the detective spoke.

“The occupant of Room Six?” he asked.

“Dead, or will be in twenty-four hours at most”, Bacchus Holmes said.

“William Harvelle?”

“Seventy-two hours tops. Probably much less.”

Holmes nodded, then pressed his long hands together. 

“It is a dark case”, he said, sounding almost rueful. “How did the man come to be in that room in the first place?”

Mr. Bewick snorted, but answered.

“His name is – for now, anyway – Mr. Ernest Sikes. A minor government clerk in the War Department, he was involved with the passing of some sensitive papers to a certain Foreign Power.”

“He stole them?” I asked.

Mr. Bewick glared at me for daring to interrupt. I subsided.

“The papers were delivered successfully, and he returned to his flat. However, during the journey he contracted a virulent form of leprosy. The doctor we called said that even the lightest contact would cause someone to become infected. The man we assigned to guard him, Phelps, has his own incurable disease, so he accepted the post in return for an increased pension for his wife and children.”

“Yet you threatened poor Constable Jones' own family”, Holmes said coldly.

“We could not risk the man talking!” Mr. Bewick snapped. 

“Is there any danger of the constable being infected?” I asked worriedly.

“None now”, Bacchus Holmes assured us. “Symptoms manifest within twenty-four hours of infection at most, and the victim rarely lasts more than a week. Sikes returned last Wednesday.”

“You will not, of course, tell Mrs. Harvelle of this”, Mr. Bewick said.

To my surprise Holmes chuckled, as did his brother.

“Oh Johnnie!” Mr. Bacchus Holmes grinned, “how little you know us Holmeses. I would wager, doctor, that you stopped at a post office on the way home?”

“We did”, I said. “You had us followed, I know.”

Mr. Bacchus Holmes turned to his colleague. 

“I can guarantee that my brother has set in motion a chain of messages which, if unchecked, will result in at least one major government scandal being front page news by tomorrow at the latest”, he said. He turned to his brother before asking, 'which one?”

“The bigamy”, Holmes said calmly. “Or perhaps I should say, the trigamy?”

Mr. Bewick had gone a rather interesting shade of white.

“What do you want, Sher?” Bacchus Holmes asked patiently.

“To tell father about you and the Pentonville sisters”, Holmes said calmly. “And if you call me 'Sher' one more time today, then I will!”

“Sorry”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes muttered. I did not crow, but it was close.

“Better”, his brother said. “Right. First, a written assurance to Constable Jones that he and his family are safe from any retribution. He is now under my protection, and any actions taken against him will be seen as hostile. Kindly be advised that I shall be keeping in contact with him, and any 'accidents' he or his family and friends encounter will be followed very soon after by some most unpleasant revelations for the government of the day, whichever one it is. I tell you this, Mr. Bewick; if you think foreign administrations are a problem, you and your government will not survive twenty-four hours of my displeasure.”

“Fair enough”, Mr. Bewick said shortly. 

“Second, Mrs. Harvelle to continue to receive her husband's salary in the form of a pension. I know that she has a teenage daughter, so she will need the money.”

I do not know if....” Mr. Bewick began.

“Done”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes cut in. His colleague looked at him in surprise, but did not contradict him.

“Third, you will allow William Harvelle to write his wife a letter, explaining that he cannot see her again because of the risk of infection. You will bring the letter to me, and I will deliver it to her personally.”

“All right”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said. “ I can deliver it for you, If you like.”

Holmes smiled.

“Bacchus, you may care to know that as well as an attractive teenage daughter, Mrs. Harvelle keeps and is well practised in the use of a rifle!”

“Damnation, Sherlock!”

I smiled.

+~+~+

We showed our unwelcome guests out, and I sighed in relief. 

“Thank heavens that they are gone!” I exclaimed, opening the window to let some fresh (or at least London) air in. 

“Indeed”, Holmes said quietly. I looked at him.

“There is something more to this”, I said carefully. 

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

“Mr. Sikes' journey was to Constantinople”, he said.

“I see”, I said, not seeing. 

Holmes looked hard at me. Suddenly I got it, and all but fell into my chair. My friend moved swiftly to pour me a whisky, and I downed it in one shot.

“The 'paint' was to mask the.....?” He nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “The outbreak of any disease would cause a panic, but the uncovering of a case of the bubonic plague in the capital stirs many memories, even ones over two centuries old. With the city already on edge over these accursed Irish terrorists, such a story could have caused a widespread panic. There would in all probability have been both injuries and death as people tried to flee the city.”

“I get it now”, I said sadly. “Poor Mrs. Harvelle.”

“Yes”, Holmes said. “I do hope dear Bacchus keeps his word about that letter. The bigamy – or 'trigamy' - scandal is one of eight that I am currently cognizant of, and that is not even counting the Liberal Unionists!”

I gulped.

+~+~+

It was three days later, and we were back in Baker Street. Mrs. Harvelle thanked us for bringing the letter.

“Thank you for arranging everything”, she said, wiping her eyes. “Poor Bill. He was always worried being a copper would get him, yet it was the side-job that did for him.”

“I am glad that the Metropolitan Police Service is to offer you a full pension”, Holmes said. She smiled.

“I can hardly believe that, seeing as he was not even on the job when he copped it”, she said. “But he explained that what he did – reporting straight to the nearest hospital and all that – spared the city an epidemic that could have killed hundreds. It was the least that they could do for his sacrifice.”

“I do hope that you will not have to move”, I said. “The house is rather large.”

She nodded.

“Bill heard that they were planning to make the station bigger, and thought buying a house with a few rooms would mean we could rent out to the new officers”, she said. “But they decided to expand Edgeware Road station instead, so we were stuck. Though I have managed to get tenants for three of the five rooms.”

Holmes and I both looked up sharply.

“You are looking for tenants?” I asked.

+~+~+

One month later, we were due to leave Cramer Street and move to the rooms that would be our home for the next two decades, 221B Baker Street. But alas, the best-laid plans of mice and men......


End file.
